In the Kitchen
by J9
Summary: This is the kitchen he grew up in. (W/S)


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Title: The Kitchen

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Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

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Rating: PG

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Pairing: Sara/Warrick

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Feedback: Makes my day

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Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

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Archive: At my site Checkmate () , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.

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Summary: This is the kitchen that he grew up in.

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Notes: For the LiveJournal Writer's Choice "In the Kitchen" challenge

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This is the kitchen that he grew up in. 

He knows that some people mightn't understand that comment, might expect him to talk about the house he grew up in, but the fact of the matter is that when he thinks about growing up, he thinks about this room. 

This is the kitchen in the grainy black and white photographs showing a seven-year-old Warrick blowing out the candles on his birthday cake, his beaming mother at his side. Pops was behind the camera, and the next photo shows Grams and Mom on either side of him, before Mom went behind the camera, taking a photo of him and his grandparents. 

This is the table that he sat at scant six months later, Grams once more beside him, holding his hand as she told him that Mom wasn't coming home. This is the table that groaned under the weight of food that well meaning neighbours and family members brought with them when they converged en masse to offer condolences. 

This is the table that groaned under the weight of his schoolbooks, where he sat to do his homework assignments, Grams helping him with the work as best she could when he was younger. When he got older and the subjects outstripped her knowledge, she would still help him in her own way, keeping a steady stream of snacks and drinks coming; brain food she called it. 

This is the kitchen that hosted a party fit for a king when he got into college on an athletic scholarship, the table once more groaning under the weight of food, but this time for a much happier reason. 

This is the kitchen that he came to once a week, if not more, for dinner with Grams, a tradition he started the first week of college and has rarely missed in all the years since. The living room may be more comfortable, but this is where the lion's share of their conversations take place, over dinner, or mugs of tea with plates of Grams's home cooking spread before them. 

This is the table where Grams gave him breakfast one morning a couple of years ago with tears in her eyes. He'd told her that she shouldn't upset herself, that he'd be back, but she'd just shaken her head, telling him that things would never be the same again, that it would never be just the two of them again. He'd been taken aback at that, not sure of what to say, and she'd hastily told him that she loved Sara, that she was thrilled to have her as part of the family, but that she couldn't believe that her work in progress was old enough to get married. He'd smiled then, understanding, and he'd joked that the way that Sara cooked, the two of them would be over here more times than they'd be at their own place. He'd been right too. 

This is the table around which the three of them had sat a few months after that, when he and Sara had given Grams their good news. She'd had tears in her eyes again, and uncharacteristically enough, so had Sara, which she'd blamed on hormones. He'd made some kind of joke about it and Grams had reached over, smacking the back of his hand lightly just as she had when he was a child, telling Sara that she had her full permission to do the same any time he got out of line. Sara, demonstrating considerable powers of recovery, had pointed out that she'd never waited for that permission before. 

This is the table that they'd gathered around again eight months later, when he and Sara had brought little Emma, named for Grams, home from the hospital, and they'd come here before they'd even gone to their own place. All the neighbours had come around, the table had once more been filled with food, and Grams and Sara had taken it in turns to hold the baby, identical adoring smiles on their faces. Warrick hadn't got a look in, but he hadn't really minded that much, enjoying far more the looks on their faces, impressing them into his memory.

This is the kitchen with the markings on the wall, markings which have been made freshly over every coat of paint. One set of marks bears the initial J, for Joyce, his mother's name. Pops made a mark there every year on her birthday for as long as she lived, and when Warrick came along, he made marks for him too, marking them with a W. Pops died when he was fourteen, but Grams still insisted that the marks be made, standing on a chair when he got older and taller than she was. 

This is the kitchen where he kneels down beside the markings, making a third set, a brand new set. Getting Emma to stand still is harder than it looks, but he manages it, making the mark, the initial E beside it. He kisses the top of her head then, telling her that she's a good girl, then he lets her run over to the table so that she can join her mother and her great-grandmother, who are sitting side by side, a homemade birthday cake with one candle lighting in the middle of it. He will join them in a minute, but for now he wants to look at his three girls, the three most important women in his life, all gathered around the table where he's spent so much of his life. 

This is the kitchen that he grew up in, the kitchen that his daughter is going to grow up in, and every time he walks in here, he knows that he's home. 


End file.
